


The Support Group

by insideabunker



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:58:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7304224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insideabunker/pseuds/insideabunker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Military officer, Clarke Griffin, has been convicted of treason.  Hours from execution, a mysterious stranger appears, offering her a deal: Her life, in exchange for joining his clandestine intelligence unit. Now, Clarke is caught in a high stakes world where mission is everything,  and her only constants are danger, death, and the piercing green eyes that seem to follow her everywhere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In the still of the night, in the all-encompassed darkness, she managed to escape, if only for a moment. In the precious seconds it took for sleep to give way to dreams, Clarke lost her bearings, and in that instant she was home; back in her own bed, surrounded by soft pillows, well-worn sheets, and the gentle chorus of the crickets in the field behind her mother's house.

Then, the shrill creak of a heavy, metal door woke her, and the momentary reprieve from bleak reality vanished. As light slipped, slowly into the cold, concrete cell, situational awareness came flooding back into Clarke's consciousness. The hard, bitter reality of her circumstances, washed over her.

Clarke squinted her eyes, attempting to adjusting to the harsh glow from the artificial lights in the tiled corridor outside. A shadowy figure lingered in the doorway, resting a hand on the frame and making no attempt to enter. Fear began to settle over Clarke. Though her time at the facility had been short, she was well aware of the the stories being passes around about brig guards what they did to female detainees. Now, here was a guard, lingering in her doorway in the dead of night, staring at her. Clarke felt her heart begin to race in her chest. At last, the figure spoke, piercing the anxious silence.

"I'm sorry for waking you. May I come in?"

Clarke tried to answer, but the words caught in her throat. Part of her suspected the worst, but the the voice had none of the gravel that characterized the guards she'd encountered so far. This voice was pleasant, soothing, and its tone was almost… Clarke wasn't sure how to describe it. Paternal, perhaps?

What was more, as the man entered the room it became clear that this was no guard at all. The black suit he wore was simple, but well-tailored; the matching tie hang smartly in front of a spotless white shirt. His black hair was parted neatly, and combed away from his face, but the cut of it was longer than even the most lenient military command would have allowed. He carried a nondescript briefcase in one hand, not something one generally saw a soldier with. Something about his plain, patent leather shoes, however, seemed "general issue." Clarke had the distinct feeling that even if this man wasn't military, he still received his monthly tithings from the government. Could he be CIA? Department of Homeland Security perhaps?

He cleared his throat, and instantly a guard appeared through the door carrying a metal chair, which he placed delicately behind the well dressed gentleman. The man in the black suit nodded his head in appreciation, and addresses the guard with the same calm, even tone he'd just used.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave us now. I need a moment along with Captain Griffin."

The guard looked around, unsure of himself, before speaking

"I'm sorry sir, but regulations require that a CO's must be present at all times during visitation, and we're required to have a female CO present when a female detainee is required to be behind a closed door with a ma…."

The man in the black suit held up a hand to silence the rambling guard.

"I understand the the need for two person integrity Specialist, and I applaud your diligence in following protocol, but I'm afraid I must insist."

He looked down at Clarke, and then turned his head back at the guard before continuing.

"If you like you can wait at the end of the hall. That way, if anything inappropriate happens, Captain Griffin will be able to get you attention."

He looked back down at Clarke.

"Captain, will you be comfortable with that arrangement?"

Clarke nodded slowly , still frozen to her cot, and unsure of what was happening. She looked up the young guard, who was staring down at her anxiously. Clarke was sure she was at the bottom of the list of favorite prisoners amongst the CO's that worked at the facility. Their hatred of her was a byproduct of the crime she had committed; a crime that by its very nature was fundamentally repugnant them. Guards here were the most polarized kind of soldiers, blindly loyal, conservative to a fault, and unquestioning when it came to "the mission." From the moment she'd arrived, she'd been beset on all sides by their constant scrutiny, and had been the frequent butt of off color jokes, and long-winded, scathing criticisms. This young man, however, was ever so slightly less horrible. He seemed idealistic, determined to uphold standards of professionalism in spite of his personal feelings. He hadn't been nice to her per se, but he hadn't been explicitly cruel either. In this place, that was about as good as it was going to get. Slowly, Clarke nodded her head up and down twice.

"It's ok. I'll be fine."

The young man stared at her for a moment before nodding and turning to leave. Just before he stepped into the hall, he turned back, looking from Clarke, to the man in the black suit, and back to Clarke.

"You just yell if you need anything."

He turned and strode through the door, the sound of his heavy footsteps echoing off the tiles as he made his way down the corridor.

The man in the black suit pushed the door closed, pausing as it shut to let out a slow, steady breath. He turned to Clarke.

"I'm sure this is all very frightening for you, being woken up in the middle of the night like this. You must be feeling… confused."

Clarke nodded, but remained silent. The man walked to the metal chair the guard had left and sat, very slowly. With delicate hands he smoothed the fabric of his pants before placing his briefcase on his knees, and opening it gingerly. He moved in a way that was refined, delicate, almost effeminate Clarke thought.

The man removed a thick file from the case, which he then closed, placing back on the floor. With great care, he crossed his legs, balancing the now open file in his lap as he began to read read from its contents, speaking in shorthand.

"Name: Clarke A. Griffin. Birth place: Washington D.C. Parents: Abigale Griffin née Mitchell, and Jacob Griffin, both West Point graduates. Mother's status: Living. Mother's profession: Doctor, six years Army Medical Corps, 19 years civilian sector, current chief of surgery at Johns Hopkins. Father's status:….

He paused for a moment before adding "missing, presumed dead."

"Father's profession: Commissioned Officer, Army Corps of Engineers.

"Secondary Education: Sidwell Friends School, graduated at 17, valedictorian. College: Georgetown University, double majors in fine art and biology, minors in Korean and Chinese, graduated in three years, high honors in both majors. Medical school: Harvard. Residency: Landstuhl Regional Medical Center, U.S. Army Medical Corps"

He tapped the file and stared at Clarke quizzically. Clarke stared back, unaware of what to do next. Confident that the gentleman posed no immediate threat, she let her guard down enough to ask a question.

"Does it say anything else?"

The man in the black suit cracked a half crooked smile.

"You were the president of you high school's model U.N."

Clarke was genuinely taken aback at how well informed this man seemed to be about her life. None-the-less, betraying her surprise didn't seem like the best course of action. She cleared her throat and shifted on the cot, pulling her knees tight to her chest.

"Look, you've obviously done your homework, but why the interest in my background? None of the other interrogators cared about my model U.N. career."

The man uncrossed his legs, making sure to smooth out the legs of his trousers again.

"I'm not here to interrogate you Captain Griffin. What I would like to know, is why a Georgetown and Harvard educated doctor who's proficiency in three languages decides, at the last minute, to throw away a promising, and potentially quite lucrative civilian career, in favor of becoming a military field-surgeon. You didn't need help paying back school loans, and your options for being matched with a top tier residency program were excellent."

He paused.

"Did you know that every residency program you interviews with ranked you among their top five preferred candidates?"

Clarke shooter her head.

"Nobody ever sees those lists."

He hummed, looking down at his paperwork.

"I did. You would have matched with whatever residency program you ranked highest. Your grades were impeccable. You had outstanding recommendations from all the most notable professors. Everyone wanted you, and yet, at the last minute you chose to commission in the Medical Corps. Why is that?

Clarke eyed him suspiciously, trying to deciding how to answer. She shrugged her shoulders and looked at the far wall, trying not to betray her uncertainty.

"I wanted to follow in my fathers footsteps. Honor his legacy"

He nodded.

"I doubt that, very much."

His terse and cool response dug under Clarke's skin, where it crawled around, replacing her trepidation with annoyance. She gathered her courage for just a moment, and stared at the man defiantly.

"Why do you doubt that so much? You have my files. You must know that I did ROTC in high school."

He nodded again.

"Which you quit after the your father went AWO…"

Clarke was on her feet in an instant, cutting him off before he could finish. Fury radiated from her eyes, and every word she spoke was painfully slow, completely deliberate, and laced with poison. They hit like a lead weights as they fell form her lips.

"MY FATHER WAS NOT A DESERTER!"

Her breaths came heavy and fast, as though she'd just finished running a race. The man in the black suit, however, seemed barely fazed by her outburst." He nodded, and cleared his throat.

"Sit down, please."

The palpable heat of her rage dissipating into the air of the tiny cell, Clarke seemed to remember herself once again, regaining her faculties, and lowering her body back onto the cot. Slowly, worry replaced anger, and she began to wonder how much trouble her outburst had just landed her in. After a moment, the man began again.

"You quit after your father's disappearance, and you hadn't shown any interest in military service before or since. Why the sudden change?"

Clarke looked down at the floor, trying to come up with an answer that wouldn't invite more questions.

"I just wanted to serve."

The man tapped the file again, glancing down at it, then back up to shoot Clarke an amused look.

"Forgive me Captain Griffin, it's just that patriotism seems like an odd sentiment coming from someone who has just been accused of treason."

For the next few moments, silence reigned between the cell's two occupants. Neither spoke, nor moved, nor breathed. Finally, Clarke forced herself to raise her head, and look the man dead in the eyes.

"Accused and convicted guilty aren't the same thing."

The amusement that had been on the man's face moments ago slipped away, a sober frown replacing it. He finally closed the file on his lap, bending over slightly to place it on the briefcase at his side. When he straightened up he let out a thoughtful sigh, and nodded at Clarke, pursing his lips.

"Actually, Captain Griffin… I'm afraid that, for you, they are."

The Man in the black suit uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again in the opposite order.

"Tell me, Captain, what do you know about constitutional law regarding a person, accused of treason?"

Clarke swallowed the lump that had been building in her throat since this portion of the conversation had started. Not wanting to betray her emotions, she held the man's gaze. Inside however, she could feel anxiety building like a wave that was about to crest over her.

"Only that I have the right to be tried in from top a jury, and that the prosecution needs the testimony of to witnesses to convict me."

He nodded.

"Yes, and normally that would be correct. Unfortunately for you, Captain Griffin, the Uniformed Code of Military Justice, to which you are an adherent, works a bit differently in these cases. You see, after the attacks on 9/11, stipulations regarding contingency zones have changed to include any areas deemed 'high threat' by the United States' government. That extends to places such as, for example, Kuwait, and military units operating in portions of South Korea located within a certain radius of the DMZ. The includes by the way…"

The wave of anxiety that was building inside Clarke crested then, crashing over her head and sweeping her away in a wash of panic and fear. She wasted no time in finishing the man's sentence.

"My field surgical unit."

The man gave Clarke her a somber nod.

"Your field surgical unit. Now, according to the parameters of the UCMJ, Code 904, Article 104: 'Aiding the Enemy,' and I'm paraphrasing here but… "any soldier who, without proper authority, knowingly harbors, protects or gives intelligence to the enemy, either directly or indirectly…"

Again Clarke finished his sentence for him.

"…shall suffer death or such other punishment as a military commission may direct."

Clarke could feel the heat of the tears she was holding back. She struggled to keep herself from hyperventilating as she stood once more, wringing her hands, and running them through her hair, frantically. Suddenly all the secrecy surrounding her arrest and transportation seemed clear. In cases of suspected treason an attempted information leaks, the news media would usually have been swarming. However, as far as she could tell, no-one had said anything to the public regarding her alleged crime. Initially she'd assumed that this fact was due to the presumption of her innocence. Until now, Clarke didn't consider that she should be worried about how hush-hush everything had been.

"So that's what you are here to tell me? I'm not going back stateside? No trial? No jury? But… I don't understand. If I was going to be tried by a commission and not given a court martial, then why transport me back to Germany? Why keep me in this holding unit? Why not just try me in Korea? How can they… How could they… I… I… I DIDN'T EVEN RELEASE THE VIDEO! "

He nodded again.

"Captain Griffin, I'm afraid that in twelve hours you are going to be summoned before a military commission that will find your guilty of harboring sensitive information with the intent to aid the enemy. This commission intends to convict you of treason, and sentence you to death by execution."

Panic had finally settled in and set up camp in Clarke's head, and by now her breathing was coming in at labored, frantic intervals. Who was this man? Why should she trust that his words were gospel, and not simply a tactic to scare her into confessions, and declarations; all of the things that a slew of interrogators had been working on for weeks? What on earth made her believe anything he said?

"Why should I believe anything you say? If this is true, then prove it!"

He stood in stoic silence before bending to pick up her file once more, and sliding two pieces of paper from the inside. He extending his arm slowly, holding the official looking documents out to her. Each one was filled with lines and lines of text, punctuated by an inky black signature after that, and marked with the stamp ink of an official seal at the bottom.

"Captain Griffin, these are the signed, sworn testimonies of one Captain Silvia Rodriguez-Lopez and First Lieutenant Andrew Fischer, friends of your and fellow members of the 121st Combat Support Hospital. These are the two witness testimonies that are going to be used to convict you. You can read the mid you like, but I wouldn't recommend it."

There was no use holding back her tears any longer, but Clarke refused to let this man see her cry. She hadn't cried in front of anyone since her father's death, and come hell or high water, she wasn't going to start now. She let her eyes drop to the papers, and against her better judgement, took the documents form the man's hand and began reading. The things she read shocked her, hurt her, cut into her heart and opened wounds that she knew would never close. Every word of each testimony, every defamation of her character, every treacherous word of both; each one was was a lie.

"Lopez and Fischer are my friends. They didn't even know about that video. Why would they provide false testimony?"

As Clarke raised her eyes from the papers to the man in front of her she realized that he'd kept his eyes trained on her the entire time. He was focused, determined, leading up to something. He took the papers for her now shaking hands and placed them back in the file. He bent down, putting the file into his briefcase and closing it. Then, he stood, straightening his trousers again and taking the briefcase in hand.

"You'd be surprised what people will do when they're afraid. Not scared, not frightened, but…" He paused. "Truly afraid."

Clarke nodded and sat back on the cot. So that was it then. It was over. There would be no trial. There would be no public outcry. All of the things she had pictured in her head when the ten year old video had been delivered to her on that worn flash drive would never come to pass. There would be no justice for her father. There would be no redemption for her. She inhaled a slow deep breath, allowing her thoughts to collect and her resolve to pool. If it was to end this way, she thought, at the very least she would resolve to let it end with her dignity intact.

"So that's that then. I'm going to die? They're going to execute me?"

What happened next contradicted everything about the tone of the conversation until that moment. A hint of a grin suddenly emerged from the stoic expression on the man's face. He raised a balled fist to his mouth and coughed, clearing his throat. When he looked back at Clarke it was with something akin to amusement. Everything about his demeanor seemed suddenly off.

"Actually, Captain Griffin… That is, ultimately, up to you. That's the reason I'm here. As I see it, you have a very serious problem. I'm here to offer you a solution; a way out, so to speak."

Clarke raise her eyes, confident that she could hold it together in front of the strange in front of her, though barely registering her emotions through the confusion that clouded her mind.

"Wait… What do you mean? What solution? What are you talking about?"

The man crossed to her cot and pointed to the space next to her.

"May I sit?"

She nodded, and he sat, his movements deliberately painstakingly slow in an effort to put Clarke at ease.

"Captain Griffin, in less than an hour you are scheduled to be flown to a remote military installation some distance from here. There you will be tried by committee, found guilty, and sentenced to executing. That part I can't change. However, suppose you never make it to that trial.

Clarke swallowed hard.

"What do you mean?"

The man in the black suit smiled at her, his face excusing an almost genuine warmth.

"Captain Griffin, I'm sure you won't be surprised by this, but not all government organizations operate with the same level of visibility as the regular military. Some of them are a bit more…"

He paused, as a smirk crept over his face.

"…clandestine. I am from one of those organizations. In fact, I'm from an organization whose mission priority supersedes that of just about any other. That means, in spite of your activities in South Korea, that if I deem you a mission critical asset, it puts the kibosh on this unfortunate business with the video. And, just so we're clear, I do deem you a mission critical asset. In fact, I've had my eye on recruiting for quite some time."

At this point, Clarke was beyond confused. She shook her head trying to clear it.

"So if I let your recruit me then this all just goes away."

Finally the man's smile fell a bit. He looked Clarke over as if reconsidering what he was about to say, and when he finally spoke, each word was completely matter-of-fact.

"Not exactly. What I can offer you, Captain Griffin, is this. You see, I work for a government organization who's sole purpose is the discreet collection of sensitive information and the neutralization of critical threats. We recruit a extremely small number of personnel who posses talents that we have been deemed both rare, and critical to our mission. We train those individuals to the very limits of their capabilities. Our operatives lead lives of intrigue, danger, and adventure; the kind of lives that many people only dream about. However, those lives are also ones built on pillars of discipline, honor, sacrifice, and most importantly, anonymity. Accepting this offer carries a heavy price. Entrance into our world is a one way ticket, and while agreeing to join us will prevent your death, it won't save your life… At least, not the life you've lead up unto this point."

The man stared down at Clarke seriously. She kept waiting for him to deliver the punchline. Surely this gentleman couldn't be serious. What he was saying was like dialogue form a bad movie. Organizations like the one he was describing didn't really exist. Did they?

"What do you mean it won't save my life?"

He placed a hand on her shoulder then, his face softening.

"I mean that if you agree to join us, your existence as you know it will cease. We will erase every trace of you. Everyone you know will believe you to be dead, and you can never again see or make contact with friends or your family. From that moment onward, your every move will be the decision of our organization. You will live and die by the directives of your missions. If and when you are release form our service, it will be under an assumed identity that we create for you. Any deviation from this identity, any attempt to reestablish contact with people from your old life, will resulting in both their and your termination."

Clarke was still waiting for the man to reveal the joke, but the stoic expression remained etched on his face as he waited for her to deliver an answer.

"Why would anyone agree to that?"

He sighed.

"Because if you don't, your only option is death."

Suddenly, the hallway outside was filled with the thunderous sounds of guards pouring into it, beating their batons on the walls and hooting as they made their way toward Clarke's cell.

"Wake up Captain Griffin! Get your hands against the wall! You're being transported!"

The stern look on the man's face grew deeper and more pressing.

"I'm afraid we're out of time Captain Griffin. I'll need your answer immediately."

Clark's heart was beating like a war drum now. Her breathing sped up, and she could feel perspiration forming on her hands and forehead as the guards made their way towards her cell.

"You've got a deal."

The man smiled and stood, removing his hand from her shoulder, only to hold it out in front of her.

"Good. I'm Kane by the way."

No sooner had Clarke stood, taking the man's hand to shake it, then she was hit by sharpe pain in her neck. A wave of dizziness washed over her, and her knees gave out. Suddenly, everything went black, and Clarke was swallowed whole by darkness, her sleep punctuated only by flashes of dreams, and images that came to her in fleeting moments of semi-consciousness; the sounds of rotor blades cutting through the air, the feeling of strong arms lifting her up, the touch of soft slender fingers checking her pulse, and piercing green eyes surrounded by black, smudged face paint. Then, there was nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

It was the clicking that woke her. No, not clicking, typing. Then her head throbbed, and suddenly the tapping of fingers across the keyboard might as well have been the sound of gunshots going oFf, or classical percussion being played in a concert hall. As she rolled onto her side she realized that the hard pillow cooling the side of her face was, in fact, the smooth cold of a concrete of the floor. Clarke braced herself with a shaky hand and pushed herself up to sit, groaning as another burst of pain exploded from behind her eyelids, and a wave of nausea washed over her. The typing stopped, and as Clarke struggled to force hear heavy eyelids open, she heard a voice.

"You vomited all over Anya you know."

Clarke blinked a few times to clear her blurred vision.

"Wh.. What? Where am I?!"

Her vision finally clear, Clarke was able to take in her surroundings. The room had no windows, and was only dimly lit by fluorescent tubes, giving the space an eerie, slightly greenish glow. From floor to ceiling, the whole of the space was composed of cold, glossy concrete. A modest coffin locker style bed had been built into the left wall, and every remaining surface in the room, was covered in blue prints and schematics. In the far right corder, a semi-circular desk sat, cramped with stacked paperwork, humming electrical equipment, and computer screens. Just being one of these a tuft of dark hair was just visible. Then, the sound of an office chair swiveling and rolling caught Clarks attention, and a pretty, tan skinned girl emerged form behind the desk.

"Whoa, whoa whoa! Relax! You're safe."

The girl paused, waiting to make sure that Clarke had calmed down before continuing.

" I said you vomited. Twice on the helo ride here, and again, all over Anya, when she was helping carry you in. She's pissed!"

As confused as she was, Clarke felt embarrassment creep over her. Suddenly she felt timid and modest.

"Oh. I'm sorry…"

The dark haired girl shook her head, grinning madly.

"Don't be! She's the MOST uptight, pain in the ass. You should've seen the face she made when it happened. Priceless! Anyway, you'll find this out soon enough, but this place isn't exactly comedy night at the Apollo. Watching you blow chunks all over Anya while you were unconscious…. Well, that's pretty much the funniest thing I've seen all year."

Clarke's cocked an eyebrow and stared at the dark haired girl, mouth slightly agape. She felt as though she had jumped into this conversation mid stride, and understood none of the context critical to it. Where was "this place?" Who the hell was "Anya?" Her expression must have betrayed how utterly lost in she felt, and a spark of realization appeared in the dark haired girls eyes. She leaned forward, extending her hand, and used one leg to roll herself toward Clarke.

"I'm Raven, by the way."

Watching her pull her chair towards her, Clarke realized that the girl's other foot was dragging over the floor like a deadweight. When she looked closer, she realized that the girl's whole leg was strapped tightly in a brace, extending from underneath her foot, to just below the top of her thigh. The girl clearly noticed Clarke staring at the appendage, and she knocked on the metal supports of the brace.

"Nerve damage. No feeling from the mid-thigh down."

Clarke shook her head, realizing how rude she must seem.

"Sorry! Oh…"

She reach out and grabbed Raven's still extended hand, shaking it.

"Clarke. I mean… My name is Clarke. Sorry, I didn't mean to stare."

To her credit Raven smiled generously, shrugging her shoulders.

"It happens. Believe me, I'm used to it."

Though she knew that Raven had said it to be reassuring, the statement instantly made Clarke feel guilty. For a moment, she shifted her eyes around the room in embarrassment, doing everything she could not to make eye contact. When she finally looked back at Raven, Clarke realized that she'd completely forgotten what should certainly be her primary concern. She still had no idea where she was.

"Raven… Where am I? What is this place?"

Suddenly, it was Raven's turn to avoid eye contact. She looked around the room, hesitating to answer before she finally raised a balled fist in front of her mouth, and cleared her throat.

"This is my place. I'd apologize for the mess, but frankly this is how it always looks.:

Raven scooted her chair back behind the desk and and then rolled back minute later with a bottle of water and an aspire.

"Here, take this. You look like you could use it."

Clarke nodded and took the pill. As soon as she washed it down with a swig from the water bottle, she felt her stomach lurch. Clarke shuddered and let out a sickened moaning sound, grabbing her stomach and lurching forward. Raven immediately rolled back behind the desk, grabbing a small waist bucket and rolling back to place it in front of the sickened girl.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hey, there blondie. If you're gonna spew, spew into this."

Clarke nodded and took the waste bucket in hand, folding it into the crook of her arm. She spit into it, attempting to clear the lingering acidic taste from her mouth, and took a few deep breaths to calm herself.

"Thanks. Actually, I think I'll gonna be ok. I just… I think my stomach is still a little sensitive. What happened to me anyway? Why do I feel like I just woke up on the bad end of a a pub crawl?"

Raven rolled her eyes.

"That'll be Anya. She likes to go a little heavy on the tranqs. Some people have a bad reaction. Guess you're just one of the unlucky few."

Clarke's eyes widened.

"Wait, tranqs as in tranquilizers? Why was I tranquilized?! Raven, tell me what is going on!"

Rave sighed and wring her hands.

"Look, you remember meeting Kane right?"

Clarke nodded.

"And I'm sure he gave you some big speech about choices, and options, and then offered you some kind of 'get out of jail free' card in exchange for joining the organization he worked for. Is that right?"

Clarke nodded again.

"Ok, well… That is where you are. This, is that organization. I mean, not this…"

Raven pointed around the room.

"This, is my bedroom. But, you are in my bedroom, inside the headquarters of the organization he was talking about. You were tranquilized because that is what they do to everybody the first time they bring them here. This is all supposed to be all 'secret squirrel' so, they need to make sure they can trust you before they let you get your bearings.

Clarke glanced around.

"And, how did I end up in your bedroom?"

Raven blushed.

"Hey now… Don't get any ideas. They put you here because you were sick and I, obviously…"

Raven tapped her leg.

"…am not going anywhere anytime soon. They needed someone to watch you to make sure you didn't aspirate. So, you know… you're welcome."

Clarke nodded.

"Well… Thanks I guess… for not letting me drown in a pool of my own vomit.

Raven smiled.

No problem. I mean, hey, I woke up nauseous, in a strange room once too.

Raven's expression becomes melancholy then, and for a moment there was a lapse in conversation between the two. Finally, Clarke broke the silence.

"So, can you tell me anything else about where I am, or are you being deliberately vague?"

,hh4

Raven touched the tip of her nose with her index finder to indicate that Clarke had hit the nail on the head.

"I wouldn't want to ruin the big orientation speech that Kane has planned. Although, I suppose I wouldn't be breaking the rules if I told you that 'this place' is actually an old World War IIbunker that was designed to house high ranking members of government. Right now you're about a mile under ground. Home sweet home. Try to think of it as summer camp, only awful, and buried underneath the Anacostia river."

Clarke's eyes widened in realization.

"Wait, the Anacostia river… Are we in D.C?"

Raven realized her slip and turned bright red.

"Nope! Nope! I've said way too much as it is. No more questions for the day."

She spun back around and, once again scooted behind her desk, where she began typing madly. Clarke was about to press her for more information when the heavy, metal door to the room and a slender girl with the highest cheekbones Clarke had ever seen appeared.

"You!"

She pointed at Clarke.

"Follow me!"

Clarke glanced back at Raven who was staring at her mouthing what appeared to be, "That's Anya."

Clarke gulped. She turned back to the slender woman standing in the doorway, who was glaring daggers at her.

"Up! Now! I don't have all day!"

Clarke was on her feet in an instant and following Anya out the door of the room. As they entered the corridor outside she though she could barely make out the fair sound of Raven shouting tidings of good luck to her.

Clarke trailed behind Anya down the domed, reinforced corridors, and up several flights of stairs before reaching a doorway marked "GALLERY." Like everything els win the corridor, the door was constructed from heavy steel, and in place of a handle there was a keypad, something one might see on an old payphone. Anya punched in a code quickly, and a metal slat on the door rolled open, revealing a small screen. The screen lit, and Anya leaned forward as green scanner beams combed over her face. Then a loud clanking rang out as the door unlocked, swinging forward slightly. Anya pushed it the rest of the way and pointed a finger into the darkness beyond it.

"In."

Clarke hesitated. She was more then a little worried what lay waiting for her beyond the door, and had no desire to find out. In spite of herself, Clarke too a cautious step forward, and watched as Anya's eyes narrowed.

"Come on, Blondie! I don't have all day!"

She grabbed Clarke's arm and yanked her towards the entrance, pushing her the rest of the way in, before shoving the door closed behind her. It took Clarke's eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light in the room. She could tell she was in some kind of medium sized amphitheater, but it appeared to blu lit only by strips of emergency lights, located below each row of seats.

"Hey!"

Clarke looked down toward the bottom of the theater and saw a tiny cluster of people gathered in the first few rows.

"Hey! Down here!"

"Shhh!"

A second voice scolded the first.

"What's the matter with you! We have no idea who that is! How do you know they are here to help?"

A third voice rang out.

"Maybe, it's another recruit."

Clarke could hear the sounds of shoving and arguing going on bellow her. Slowly, she made her way down the amphitheater steps, using the metal railing for guidance. Finally, she reached the group of people at the bottom, and tried to do a quick head count. Eighty, maybe nine people were lounging between the first two rows of seats. Clarke tried to make out their faces but it was too dark to see much of anything. The sound of hushed arguing continued, growing more intense until suddenly, bright light flooded the room. The entire group squint and groaned.

It took a moment for Clarke's eyes to adjust, but when they did the first thing she recognized was the man standing on in the circular floor of the amphitheater. There, dressed in the same black suit, was Kane.

"Everyone, please, take a seat."

Clarke sat, looking around at her companions. There were eight people surrounding her. All of them appeared to be in their twenties, though some were decidedly younger looking than others. The oldest amongst them was a tall, powerfully built young man with curly hair, tan skin, and a smattering of freckles. Next to him was a broad gentleman with dark skin. His hair was cut in the kind of high fade that, to Clarke, seem a clear indication that he had a military background. Just behind the second boy, sat a third, his slender build and curved shoulders slumped in guarded disinterest. He had delicate features, with a slightly curved nose, and hair down to his cheek. Up and to the right of this young man, two girls sat, staring around the room contemptuously. One had dirty blonde hair and fair skin, the other was raven headed, with olive skin and a round face. Just in front of them were two more you more young men, the youngest looking of the group. They sat close together, whispering to one another discreetly, and exchanging suspicious looks. One was tall and skinny, with a messy dark hair, and a hint of a goatee. The other was a shorter, asian boy, with graceful cheekbones and dark, soulful eyes that seemed to give him a permanently thoughtful look. Just to their side, sitting bolt upright, was a short serious looking young man, with the caramel colored skin, and a scruffy beard.

Clarke looked back down at the young man with the curly hair, who had just begun speaking.

"Hey, man! Some of us wanna know what's going on here. You wanna tell me why I woke up in a bunker this morning?"

Kane nodded.

"A fair question Mr. Blake. By now, I am sure you are all wondering where you are and what you're doing here. I can assure you, everything is about to become clear. To answer Mr. Blake's question, each one of you was scouted, studied and suggested for recruitment by a senior members of our organization. You are all here for two reasons. First, each one of you is here because you had no other choice."

Clarke was reminded of the conversation with Kane back in her jail cell. What kind of people could these other eight individuals be if they had all been brought here under the same premise?

"Secondly, each one of you posses unique talents that have been deemed essential to the mission of this organization."

The curly haired boy spoke up again.

"And what is so essential about all of us, exactly?"

Kane smiled at the boy and then waved his hand towards a media booth at the top of the amphitheater.

""Queue the screen please!"

The lights dimmed again, and the beam of a projected shone down form above them. A picture of the curly haired boy's face filled the screen at the front of the amphitheater, and next to it, a dossier style breakdown of his person. Kane began reciting information off hand.

"Bellamy Augeus Blake: Age 28. Parents: Aurora Blake, no father listed. Mother: deceased. One sister: living. Three time national AAU youth champion in Taekwondo, two time finalist east coast regional junior championships in brazilian jiujitsu. Black belts: Taekwondo, brazilian jiujitsu, aikido. Three years at Hargrave Military Academy, attended full scholarship. Dropped out after your mothers death. Full legal guardianship of younger sister at 17. GED at 18, Baltimore Police Academy at 20, SWAT Platoon B at 23. Training in hostage recovery & crisis negotiations. All the best weapons training and CQB schools AND… you managed to raise you little sister and help put her through four years of George Washington University, where she had a partial gymnastics scholarship. Very impressive Mr. Blake."

The projector clicked again and now the dark skinned boys face light up the screen. Kane continued.

"Wells Coté Jaha: Age 27. Parents, Mariam Jaha née Coté and Thelonious Jaha. Mother: deceased. Father: living; General, U.S. Air Force. Six total appearances world youth chess championships, two under 8, one under 10, one under 12, two under 14. Ten years gymanstics, two regional youth championship appearances. Four years Episcopal Highschool, Alexandria Virginia. Four years deans list. Four years boy's variety crew, captain senior year, national title senior year. College: West Point. Intelligence officer training, pathfinders, SERE school, Ranger school, Defense Language Institute. Oh… and you're fluent in five languages, including Arabic and Russian."

The screen clicked again, and now the two younger looking boys appeared on the screen. Kane looked over to where they were sitting.

"Monty Green and Jasper Jordan, our most junior recruits. Juniors at Galileo Academy of Science and Technology when you hacked the central database for the city of San Francisco. Two years probation each. Both attended Stanford. Multiple infractions from your university for distribution of synthetic drugs. Both arrested one months ago, for hacking the mainframe of the national security agency. Both facing life in prison before you turn 21."

The screen clicked again, and this time it was the slender boy form the front row on the screen.

"John Murphy. Parents: Both deceased. Juvenile record…" Here Kane paused. "Extensive." Profession: Master thief. Suspected in over 50 major thefts with no arrests. Known affiliations with over ten major crime rings. Indicated in what is perhaps the largest art heist in Chicago history, but with no evidence leading to arrest. Skills: lock-picking, safe cracking, repelling, discreet infiltration."

Kane continued until they had covered everyone in the room accept for Clarke. The two girls, Harper and Emori, had been a communications specialist, and a con artist/renowned pickpocket respectively. The boy with the scruff beard, Miller, had been a weapons expert. When her information flashed onto the screen Kane paused and looked up at her. From the front row she could hear the curly hair, who she know knew to be Bellamy whistle. Wells, the young man sitting next to him, immediately elbowed him in the ribs, giving him a stern glare. Kane cleared his throat, and shot both young a stern scowl.

"And… Last but not least Clarke Griffin, our medical expert." Kane proceeded to begin giving her biographical information. When he began covering her education, Clarke could hear Bellamy mumble something along the lines of "rich girl" from the front row. Kane signaled to the booth again, and the lights were brought back up. He looked around the room and took a few steps forward, making sure to look each and every one of the nine people in front of his in the eyes.

"Recruits, this organization is one which handles the discreet collection of sensitive information and the neutralization of critical threats."

John Murphy leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the desk in front of him, and smirked.

"So, this is like the CIA? Is that what you're saying?"

Kane gave the faintest of smiles.

"Not exactly. You see, if this were the CIA, the government would keep a detailed personnel record on each of you. You'd have files, and a paper trail, and information about you saved in every major government system there is. Now, if this were any other organization that would be fine. However, the people who are administrative in control of our organization need, shall we say, a higher level of plausible deniability when it comes to our activities. For example, let's say that a military dictator comes to power in a small, Eastern Europe nation. Our government want him deposed, but he is beloved by his nation, which also happens to be our ally. Additionally, the U.S. has active military installations in said nation. We could openly support a coup, but that could loose us our allegiance with the nation in question, and potentially puts our military personnel at risk. Similarly, we could use some of our more traditional, clandestine services to try and assassinate him, but if our personnel are caught, the result is the same. It is in situations such as this, that the United States turns to our organization. Our operatives have no identities, no citizenship, no paper trails, and cannot be linked to any government. We are ghosts, and it is with that in mind, that as of 0800 this morning, all of you ceased to exist."

The last sentence threw the room into chaos. Frantic questions rang out from the eight young people gathered in the amphitheater stands, and Kane waited for them to calm before continuing. He explained that their deaths has been faked, and their friends and family now believed them to be gone forever. Clarke was informed that the helicopter she had supposedly been transported to her military commission in had experienced mechanical failure, crashing into Lake Constance near the Alps. Unsurprisingly, no personnel had been recovered. Similar scenarios had been used to cover up all of their disappearances. Kane patiently detailed each one to the frantic and furious you people, though Clarke barely caught a word he was saying. She was too busy starring at the figure who had just appeared behind him.

There, in the shadows just off the amphitheater floor stood a beautiful, athletic looking girl with wavy brown hair and piercing green eyes. Clarke remembered those eyes. They were the eyes that had stared at her through the darkness, during the brief moment of consciousness, proceeding her arrival in the facility. The girl walked forward, tapping Kane on the shoulder and whispering something in his ear. Kane nodded and looked back out over the nine people in the audience.

"It looks like they're ready to receive you now. Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the first day of you new lives. Welcome, to the support group."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The recruits go through hell-month and are subjected to harsh, unimaginable training. Wells and Clarke bond, an Clarke's past is dragged up during a mock interrogation.
> 
> Please Note!!!! There are depictions of violence and assault in this chapter as the recruits are essentially going through survival, evasion resistance and escape training. You've been warned.

The green eyed girl departed the room without a word, leaving Kane to conclude his speech.

“It looks like they’re ready to receive you now.  Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the first day of you new lives.  Welcome, to the support group.” He smiled, signaling to the nine young people in front of him. “Follow me.”

The lights in the room dimmed and the nine recruits made their way onto the amphitheater floor. Behind and to the left of Kane, tucked in the shadowy corner of the amphitheater, a door opened, pouring eerie light into the room and over the concrete of the floor. They followed Kane through the door, and into a long and narrow hallway that was light only by construction string lights. The passage seemed to go on for miles, snaking around corners, and dipping as it pulled them deep into the bowels of the earth. For nearly ten minutes they trailed behind Kane, turning and twisting through the hallway in utter silence, before they finally reached a large blast door with a flaking explosives hazard sign painted on its face. Kane spun the wheel of the hatch-style lock, and the clunking of heavy metal echoed down the hallway as to door unlocked, swinging forward.

“Here we are.” He pointed through the doorway, and the nine recruits proceeded inside, Clarke bringing up the back of the line. As she stepped through the doorway, Kane grabbed her arm, pulling her towards him gently. His face was a stone slab, stoic and unreadable, but when he whispered to her, Clarke was sure she sensed genuine concern in his tone. “Good luck, Clarke.” She nodded and stepped through the doorway.

The overheads in the room had been turned low, but even in the dim light Clarke could tell that the room was enormous. It stretched half a football field in length on either side of the doorway, and was just as wide. It reminded her of an airplane hangar, though from the looks of the metal track built into the floor, she supposed it was more likely that it had, at one time, been an enormous ammo depot. Every so many yards, sturdy metal column supported the ceiling. Each one had hefty foam padding wrapped around its base in a way that reminded Clarke of the poles that held up ski lifts. The whole of the room was composed of different training stations. Thick wrestling mats covered each one, with neat stacks of equipment and shelves full of training supplies lining the walls.

In the center of the room, a row of six people stood at parade rest, staring at the recruits. Clarke looked over them cautiously, straining her eyes to try and make out their faces. Two caucasian men stood on the far right, both tall and and hulking, the first with a short beards and broad shoulder. He stood nearly six and a half feet tall, the sheer size of him radiating fury. With a chiseled jaw and deeply dimpled cheeks and chin, the hard lines of his features gave him a handsome but ferocious look, his deep brown eyes exuding a stoic, serious nature. The man next to him seemed half a foot shorter, just as strapping, though certainly less lean. His chubby cheeks, covered in stubbly, betrayed a propensity to put on weight easily, and made him look much less gruff, silly almost. Next to this man was a dark skinned woman of medium build. Her hair was closely cropped, and she had muscular arms that made her look as though she’d spent a lifetime training to stay in peak fitness. Anya stood to her left, just as tall as her companion, but twice as thin. She stared at the group contemptuously, nostrils flaring just bit when her eyes met Clarke’s. She casting daggers in her direction, smirking a bit as she seethed in the recruits direction. On Anya's left was another enormous gentleman, with coffee colored skin, his head completely shorn. The man was certainly the most muscular of the group. His black t-shirt clung to him, straining against his biceps and chest, and betraying no sign that he had even an once of body fat. His mouth was set in a frown, and his dark, piercing eyes gazed out over the group thoughtfully. 

The final member of the group stood, to the the man’s left, staring silently at everything and nothing in particular, appearing lost in her own thought. There, set in a face that was otherwise devoid of emotion, were the piercing green eyes that Clarke remembered. Now that she had a better look at her, Clarke realize that her initial impression of the woman had barely done her justice. She was slender, but toned, with the lean body of a decathlete. Though her build was athletic in nature, here and there distinct curves rounded out the woman’s figure. She had noticeably hips, and rounded breasts that gave her a distinctly feminine form. Her wavy brown hair had been pulled back in a tight french braid, and with the mess of it no longer obscuring her features, Clarke could see the strong curve of her perfect jawline, and the soft lines of her high cheekbones. Her skin was tinted slightly olive, as though she’d just spent several days in the sun, and her lips were full, and red, set in an expressionless, flat line.

Kane cleared his throat, signaling for the attention of the recruit, and pointing to a spot on the training room floor. Clarke, and the other members of the nine with military backgrounds, saw that a strip of yellow tape that had been laid there, and recognized immediately that this was toe line, scrambled to line up along it, and standing at attention. The rest of the recruits seemed to catch on quickly, and followed suit. When they had all formed a neat row of bodies, Kane proceeded to walk down the line, passing each one and looking them from top to bottom,. Then, he proceeded into the center of the training room floor. He looked back and forth between the two rows of people skeptically. Finally, he raised a small controller with a single button in his hand, and pointed it at the ceiling. “And so, we begin begin!” Kane pressed the button, and the lights turned out, leaving the room in total darkness.

Then, they attacked.

——————————

What began that day on the training room floor, had become a singular exercise in constant, crushing misery, delivered at a grueling pace, by teachers who were as as demanding as they were unforgiving. After being knocked out in the training room, Clarke had woken, hog tied and hooded, on a soft, dirt floor. The moaning of the other recruits echoed around her from the spots where they’d been intermittently and unceremoniously dropped. It had taken at least two hours for all of them to crawl to each other, using what little dexterity they had to remove the shrouds that covered their faces. Bellamy had rubbed his wrists bloody against a rock, trying to rid his limbs of the ropes binding them, but it was Wells who had ultimately gotten free first, wiggling his wrists until his knots had loosened. Almost immediately upon untying Bellamy the two had gone into a fight. Bellamy insisted that he hadn’t need Wells’ help, an swore up and down that he would have gotten loose himself, given a few more moments. Wells shot back that given a few more moments, Bellamy would have done himself a permanent injury, and informed the larger man that, since he [Wells] had already been through training like this at SERE school, Bellamy ought to just shut up, and listen to him. The argument had continued until Clark, having had more than her fill of their unproductive machismo, reminded them that the rest of their group was still in need of untying.

By the time everyone had been freed from their bindings, night had fallen, and a hard, bitter cold had set in. Rain followed shortly thereafter, and despite their misgivings about one another, the nine recruits spent that first miserable night huddled as tightly as they could get themselves, clinging to one another for body heat, and desperate to stave off hypothermia. Sleep, if it came at all, came in short bursts, punctuated by the howls and cried of a million sinister things that crouched in the shadows, waiting to pounce. Imaginations ran wild in that dark of that first, endless night, and soon every snapping twig was a hungry wolf lurking on their perimeter; every shift in the trees a bear about to maul them.

Morning brought with it the ache of bodies that had been exposed for too long, and the rumble of hungry belly desperate to be filled. As the recruits opened their eyes, they became acutely aware of a new presence in their midst. The large, chubby cheeked man from the training room squatted in front of them, clad on cargo pants, combat boots, and a heavy, woolen pea coat that, looked warm and heavenly. He reached out, touching his fingertips to the spot where John Murphy’s nose had been broken during the struggle in the training arena. The skin was cut, and the cartilage jutted out at an awkward angle.

The man pursed his lips. “Sorry about that.” He cluck his tongue wiggling his lips from side to side. “Usually I try not to leave any permanent damage on the first day, but you struggled something awful back there in the training arena. The good news is we can fix it.”

Murphy batted his hand away angrily, wincing. The man rolled his eyes and turned toward Bellamy, pointing at his black eye and swollen lip. “That though, that was fully intentional. Gus knew right away that you had to be taken down a peg.” The man placed a hand on one of his knees and pushed himself up, groaning as he stood, as though overcoming a lifetime of battle injuries. He crossed his arms, staring at the wet, shivering young people before him, and letting out a long breath as he looked them over, disappointedly.

“Well, you managed to figure out how to stay warm. I suppose that means you’re not totally hopeless.” He looked them over again, bending down when he noticed the blue tint of Jasper’s lips. “Unfortunately, you all elected to stay in those wet clothes, so now half of you have the first stages of hypothermia.” He leaned in towards Jasper, taking the boy’s chattering jaw in his hands, and narrowing his eyes in a mean, hard stare. “Hey! Name, date, and year. Quick as you can boy!” Jasper slurred out an unintelligible response, shaking uncontrollably as he struggled to simultaneously finish his sentence, and stay away. He eyes blinked lifelessly open and closed, his breathing slow, and shallow.

The man dropped Jaspers head and stood, shaking his own as he surveyed the group again. “That one has stage two. One of you better figure out a way to warm him up fast, or you’re going to have one skinny, dead, motherfucker on your hands. Don’t know about you all, but if it were me trying to save him, I’d be stripping down and getting some body heat on that boy lickity-splits.” He ran a hand through his short, stubble wistfully.

The man continued to stare at them, silently watching as Jasper continued to shiver, his head nodding as he fought back sleep. Monty finally broke the silence, stared at the bearded stranger as he desperately rubbed Jasper’s arms, trying to keep him warm. “Who are you?”

The man looked up, startled, realizing that he’d never made an introduction. “Me? Oh, I’m Nyko. I’m one of your instructors. I dabble in wilderness survival, but mostly I’m here to hold up the medical side of the house.” He nodded at Clarke. “If Griffin here makes it through the first month of training, she’ll be apprenticing with me afterwards.”

He looked around the clearing where they were huddled and clicked his tongue again. “Anyway… Your mission for the rest of the day is to build yourselves a hasty shelter, find a way to dry those wet clothes, and keep yourselves warm. The temperature is gonna drop another ten degrees by nightfall, so I’d suggest you all get a move on.”

With that, he turned and walked away from the group, disappearing over a ridge, and into thick of the woods. Monty immediately sprang to action, pulling Jasper up by his elbows and tugging his wet clothes off him frantically. “Isn’t anybody going to help me with this?!” Clarke lurched to her feat and began assisting the boy in pulling wet clothing from Jasper’s shivering body. “One of us has to huddle with him.”

Miller folded his arms tighter around himself and rocked back and forth, trying to keep himself warm. “I was huddling with him all night, and a whole lot of good that did.”

Clarke groaned, knowing what she was about to say would be met with anything but enthusiasm. “No, I mean one of you had to get naked and huddle with him. Skin to skin contact is the only way to get him enough body heat to warm him up.”

Bellamy was on his feet immediately, shaking this head. “No! No way! I’m not spooning naked with another dude.” Clarke looked over at Wells, pleadingly. Wells glanced over at Bellamy who was shaking his head, and then back at Clarke. “Why are you looking at me?” She signed. “You’re the one thats been through SERE school. Haven’t you had to do this before?” 

“Well… Sure but that was with guys I knew. Why can’t you do it?”

Clarke sighed, unbuckling Jaspers belt and shimmying his pants down his thin, chicken legs. “My finger tips are already blue, and I can’t stop shaking. I’m in only slightly better shape then Jasper as it is. Chances are I’m not going to help him much.” 

Monty glared angrily around the group. “Fine! He’s my friend, I’ll do it!”

Clarke shook her head. “You’re lips are blue and you’re shaking as badly as I am. We need somebody big. Somebody with body mass.”

No one made a move or said a word. Clarke had begun to assume that they were all resolved to let Jasper waste away, when finally, Wells stepped forward. “Fine!”

The rest of the day had been spent gathering what little dry wood they could find for a fire, and building a ramshackle but adequate shelter from tree branches. As the rest of the group scoured the woods for anything edible, Wells had curled up in the shelter with Jasper, begrudgingly pressing his naked body to the smaller man’s to keep him warm. 

A few hours after nightfall, Clarke sat by the small but crackling fire, poking at it with a stick as her eight companions slept soundly under the lean-to they had built. She had agreed to take the first watch of the night, giving her exhausted, starving companions a chance to rest. The log she was seated on shifted as a body dropped down beside her. Wells was clad only in his pants and boots, and he stared at the fire intently, tilting his head back and letting out a breath of relief. “He stopped shivering an hour ago. Pulse is strong. Breathing’s good.” Clarke poked the fire again, bobbing her head. “Thank you… For stepping up.” He nodded, giving her a deadly serious look. “Not a word about this ever again, you hear?” She smiled just a little, nodding her head in agreement. “Not a word.”

Wells expression softened after a few minutes. “I don’t think we’ve been formerly introduced.” He extended a hand to Clarke. “Captain Wells Jaha, U.S. Army Intelligence.” Clarke took it, noting as they shook the strange contrast between the strength of his grip and the softness of his palm. “Captain Clarke Griffin, U.S. Army Medical Corps. Please to meet you.” They turned back to the fire, stared into it and watching the wood pop and burst open, the crackling logs doing their best to drown out the terrifying sounds of the forest surrounding them. Wells shoved an errant ember back towards the fire pit. “So, how did you end up here?”

Clarke took her time mulling over how to answer his question. She far Wells appeared to be the most reliable member of their group, and Clarke was loath to reveal to him information that might sour him on her permanently. She kicked at the dirt, pushing around the ash that had gathered. “I had information that I wasn’t supposed to, and I entrusted that information to the people I shouldn’t have.”

Wells didn’t answer her immediately, choosing instead to stoke the fire, poking at it and turning over the spent logs as he added more wood. “Sounds like you and I have something in common then.” Clarke waited for him to continue, wondering if Wells had any inkling of exactly how much trouble she’d been in before arriving at the training facility. He ran his had over his head, closing his eyes and flexing his square jaw. “I was embedded with a unit near Shkin, in the Paktika province of Afghanistan, near the Pakistani border.”

Clarke’s eyes grew wide, knowing the name all too well. Clarke had done a tour to Afghanistan in the second year of her residency. She remembered poignantly the terror in the eyes of one of her friends when the young field surgeon had been told he’d been assigned to the forward surgical unit near Shkin. The young man had been killed two weeks later. She stared at Wells, wondering if she’d regret her next question. “You’re not talking about Firebase Lilley are you?”

He nodded. “Just about the evilest place in the world if you ask me.” He continued to poke the fire, allowing the information to marinate in Clarke’s mind. Wells propped an elbow on his knee, resting his head in the palm of his hand. “I was there to gather intel about militant activity along the border with Pakistan. It was hell, attacks all the time, and constant casualties, to say nothing of being an intelligence officer embedded with the infantry.” He glanced over at Clarke, winking at her to solidify his joke. “I really caught hell from those guys, but I held my own, well enough. Anyway, about a year into my tour, I get dragged in front of these two, four star generals, and a panel of guys in suits. They start grilling me about Pakistani Army involvement with the militants; asking me whether or not I had observed enough of it to make a case that they posed a significant threat to our national interests.”

He paused again, staring at Clarke’s face to try and discern her reaction, as she took in the information. Clarke pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them, and shivering against the cold night air. “What did you tell them?”

Wells shrugged his shoulders and shifted his head to his other hand. “I told them the truth, that I hadn’t observed enough Pakistani Army involvement with the militants to say that there was any significant relationship between the two. I said that, at that time, I considered them a non-threat.”

“So what happened?”

“The next day, when I got back to base, my team ended up getting sent out on an unscheduled patrol, way far into the mountains which was… pretty weird, to say the least. Right about nightfall, when we were supposed to be headed back, we came under heavy fire. We tried everything to radio back to the firebase for support, but it was like, suddenly, all of our radios were malfunctioning.”

Wells has begun bounding a knee up and down nervously, the memory becoming overwhelming. Clarke had seen the tell-tale signs of PTSD before, and knew that whatever he was about to say, it was obviously something he struggled with .

“We never did make contact with our unit, and we ended up getting overrun. I got knocked out by the blast from an RPG that landed near me, and the next thing I knew, I woke up on a stone floor at some terrorist training camp in G-d knows where.”

Wells kicked at the fire, standing suddenly and beginning to pace, trying to relieve himself of the tension that he felt building in his chest. 

“A few days later I hear gunshots going off all over the place, and suddenly Kane is pulling the mask off my face. Turns out those four stars had set me up. I guess they wanted me to toe the party line about escalating things along the border.”

Clarke didn’t make a move to speak. She watched Wells as he stared deep into the fire, lost in his thoughts. He looked as though he could see the images he was describing dancing in the flames, reliving the horror of those moments as they flashed and flickered before him. Finally, Clarke gathered the courage to ask him the question that had been dancing on the tip of her tongue, though it was one one she was almost certain she already knew the answer to. “What happened to the rest of your team?”

It took a moment before her words registered with Wells, pulling him from his thoughts, and bringing him back to the present. When he raised his head to look at her, his eyes were glassy. “Dead. All dead.” He sat again, continuing. “Anyway, I knew I couldn't go back to my unit after that; not knowing that those four stars had sent me out there to die. Kane offered me an alternative, so I took it.”

The space between Clarke and Wells quickly filled up with silence. Having said his piece, Wells occupied himself with picking at a hole in his trousers, while Clarke simply stared into the fire, reflecting on the details of his story. The awkward silence continued until Clarke felt a tap on her shoulder, turning to see Miller staring at her bleary eyed. “I’ve got the next watch.” Clarke nodded at him, standing and offering up her seat on the log. She placed a hand on Wells’ shoulder as she strode past him. “Get some sleep, ok?” He nodded, not saying a word, and Clarke departed their company, crawling into the shelter and curling up next to the other sleeping bodies.

——————————

Some time around dawn, their camp was overrun. Heads shrouded, and hands bound, connected to a long tether of rope, the recruits stumbled as they were lead on a march over what Clarke was sure was nearly twenty miles. Finally, they were ordered to stop, and their shrouds were removed. They were lined up in front of a row of old jail cells. One by one, the nine recruits were tossed into the largest of these, hands still bound, clothes tattered, dirty and damp. Over the course of the next day, their captors would return intermittently, tormenting the group with promises of food, warm clothing and baths if would only agree to certain terms. Everyone held strong, at first.

On day two, their instructors began pulling the recruits out of the cell one at a time, dragging them away for individual interrogation. Initially, the young people resisted in stoic silence, but as each one returned with battle scars from long and painful sessions of interrogation, their protests on being taken grew feverish, and panicked. Every time one of them was dragged from the room, the rest were forced to sit and endure the sounds of their companion’s agony echoing through the halls. On what felt like the fourth night, reprieve finally came in the form of a meal that was shoved between the bars of the cell. The group ate gluttonously, realizing their mistake much too late. Clarke spent the rest of that evening listening to the sounds of everyone getting sick around her.

The next morning, Anya came to drag Clarke out of the cell once more. Clarke was too nauseous and too exhausted to care what happened to her anymore, but seeing that it was Anya who had come for her, she was sure that she was in for something especially miserable. Thirty minutes later, Clarke lay shouting and gasping for air, as Anya poured the last of the water onto the cloth covering her face. “You shouldn’t scream so loud Blondie. You waste oxygen when you do that.” Anya threw down the bucket she’d been using, and hoisted Clarke to her feet, dragging her over to the table sitting in the center of the room, and dropping her, unceremoniously, into the chair next to it. She pointed to Clarke, squinting. “Stay there!” She walked out of the room, leaving Clarke in stunned, terrified silence.

It was only a few minutes before the shivering set in. Clarke was sure if it was the cold of her drenched clothing or the shock of the waterboarding, but her whole body began to twitch and vibrate, and she struggled to get her body under control. For the past few days, Clarke had relied on the same advice she gave her panicked, injured patients in order to keep the calm. Focus on your breathing. Slow your breaths. Keep telling yourself that you’ll be fine. Clarke focused on inhaling deeply through her nose. She let the breath out slowly and incrementally, repeating the action several more times. Eventually, her shivering subsided, though no amount of deep breathing or affirmations couldn’t manage to cease it entirely.

The door to the room groaned, squealing on it’s hinges as it was pried open, and a blinding stream of light spilled over Clarke’s face, obscuring the figure entering. When the door closed again, the first thing Clarke noticed were green eyes. The woman to who they belonged walked slowly to the other end of the table and sat, not once making direct eye contact with Clarke. She placed a folder on the table in front of her, the same one Kane had been holding the night he had visited Clarke in her cell. She flipped slowly from page to page, never speaking, never looking up. When the quiet in the room had become almost too much for Clarke bear, the green eyed woman finally broke the silence.

“Water boarding?”

Clarke waited for the woman to look up from the file, but she never did. “Yes.”

The woman nodded, continuing to flip the pages with methodically. Finally she paused, clearing her throat. When she spoke, her voice seemed to strain against it own monotonicity, as though it was the woman’s first attempt at conveying emotion, or empathy. “The first time is always the worst.” She looked up, staring into Clarke’s eyes, and attempting to give what appeared to be a looks of empathy. They held each others eyes for a fraction of a second, before the woman bowed her had again, breaking the gaze as though the forced eye contact was physically painful to her. She continuing to flip through the folder for a few more minutes before closing it, and staring off to the side of Clarke, and folding her hands across her chest. “How have you been coping so far… with your time here?”

For some reason the question dug at Clarke. “You mean with starvation and torture?”

The girl gave Clarke another quick glance, before returning her gaze to tieback wall. “With this training. Yes.”

“As well as can be expected I suppose, considering I’m not sure what I am supposed to be learning.”

The woman nodded, her face becoming thoughtful, weighing how to respond to Clarke’s question. “The basis of this phase of training is to present recruits with situations that simulate the conditions of catastrophic mission failure. For you, it’s an introduction to operating under the harshest of conditions. For us, it is an opportunity to assess specific weaknesses in each candidate’s performance, so those weaknesses can be addressed and remediated in subsequent training.”

Clarke did her best to swallow the anger rising in her throat. The unemotional monotone with which the woman had just described their week of hell made her statement all the more difficult to stomach. Clarke did her best not to yell, but with her anger rising and her pulse racing it was hard to control the volume of her voice.

“That’s what you call this? An assessment. For the last two days instructors have dragged us in and out of that cell, tortured us, and barely allowed us food or water. You’re lucky somebody hadn’t died!”

“Anya, Nyko and Gustus are well versed in the limits of the human body. I can assure you that every consideration is being taken to ensure that no genuine harm befall any of the recruits during…”

Clarke’s anger finally billed over. She kicked the leg of the table violently, still bound, but determined to express her fury in whatever way she could. “I was just waterboarded! How can you say that that isn’t genuine harm?!”

The woman across from Clarke finally looked at her. Clarke held her gaze, transfixed by the pain she saw reflected in deep green her eyes. 

“You have no idea how much worse it could be.”

The statement was almost a whisper infused with sadness and anger, and was the first hint of emotion Clarke had seen slip through the cracks of the stoic, emotionless woman. A second later her resolve seemed to become steely again, and she looked away from Clarke, placing her hand on the folder and staring down. “Tell me why you turned down the residency at Johns Hopkins?”

The question took Clarke by surprise. In the previous interrogations of the long hellish week, most of the questions lobbed at her by Anya, than the other instructors, had regarded the flash drive her father had left her; about what information it might contain; about where she’d hidden it before she’d been arrested. None of them had seemed interested in her life before the military. No one had even brought it up.

Clarke stared at her knees, trying to respond with as flat a tone as she could muster. “I decided that I wanted to serve my country.”

“Your decision had nothing to do with your mother’s boyfriend?”

Clarke froze. “What are you talking about?”

“Before you abandoned your residency, you were contacted by your mother, who informed you that she’d recently begun dating an old boyfriend of hers again. If I’m not mistaken, that was the same boyfriend who gave you these.”

The woman pushed a few photographs across the table to Clarke, who willed herself not to look at them. Nobody had to show Clarke pictures, she remembered all to well what she looked like in those photographs, her lip split, her cheek red, one of her eyes blackened. She sat, seething, unsure of how to control herself when all she could feel was anger, and humiliation. “Where did you get those? Those records are supposed to be sealed.”

The women nodded. “There really isn’t much we can’t get our hands on.” She paused. “Are these photographs the byproduct of an isolated incident, or was this the only time he was caught?”

Clarke’s knee bounced up and down feverishly, the sole physical outlet for her fury. She’d dedicated a major portion of her adulthood to not thinking about the night that those photographs were taken. “It was just the one time, but that was all it took.”

“And this individual never showed intent to harm you prior to that incident?”

“He had a bad temper, but not… Not exactly. He just always gave me a bad vibe, and it got ”

“What changed that night?”

“He had moved in a few months earlier. My mother was away on business and I came home early form school and caught him with another woman. When I threatened to tell my mother he… He didn’t like that very much.”

She began to see red as the memories came flooding back to her; the argument, the chase through the house, the feeling of the back of his hand as it slapped her across the face.

“And there were no further incidents after this one?”   
“I moved out right afterward.” Clark’s knee bounced up and down even faster than before. She repeated her mantra over and over in her head, trying to control the sea of emotions that felt ready to break free form the wall she’d built up inside herself. She ran through her own advice in her head. Focus on your breathing. Slow your breaths. Keep telling yourself that you’ll be fine.

“You didn’t press charges?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“He’d managed to convince my mother that I attacked him first, and she believed him, like an idiot. Besides, I didn’t want to have the whole business dragged out in court.”

“And your mother stayed with him?”

“Yes.”

“But eventually they broke up?”

“He took a job as chief of surgery at a hospital in Cleveland.”

“And the beating… That was all that happened?”

Her knee increased speed even more.

“Yes. “I mean… He wasn’t… He didn’t…”

“Because it says here when the police arrived there was some indication that he had…”

Finally, the dam burst, and a flood of rage, pain and shame washed over Clarke like a tidal wave.

That’s enough! Just stop! Please!”

Clarke slumped forward, in defeat, too humiliated to continue. Her breaths were ragged and labored, as she panted into her chest , trying to hold back her sobs. She hadn’t thought about that night in almost ten years, and it had only taken five minutes for this woman to break her in half with the memory of it.

Her green eyes trained on the back of the sobbing girl in front of her, the woman stood, picking up the file. “I think we’re done here.”

Had she not been folded into herself in utter despair, Clarke would have seen the woman hesitate before leaving, moving to place a hand on Clarke’s shoulder, but thinking better of it and backing away before exiting the room. A few minutes later Anya returned and dragged Clarke back to the cell. Throughout the rest of the day, Clarke watched as one by one, each of her companions was taken away for interrogation, retuning in a similar state of blubbering hysterics. That night the recruits were tranquilized yet again, and when they woke, they were back inside the Support Group’s underground facility.  
——————————

The rest of the month had been similarly miserable. The return to the bunker had brought with it showers, and sleep, and their first full, hot meal in almost a week. However the novelty of those luxuries was short lived, as the next day they were immediately thrown into hand to hand combat training. The instructors for this portion were then dark skinned woman and muscular, tan gentleman from the training room, Indra and Lincoln respectively. This training was no more pleasant than the recruits week in the woods, for though each night ended with a hot meal and a warm bed, their days were spent having all manner of pain inflicted upon them. The instructors, Indra in particular, were grueling taskmasters. They demanded perfection when it came to the subjects they taught. Each lesson was expected to be taken as gospel. Each sparring match was intended to be fought as though the participants’ lives depended on winning. New to combative of any kind, Clarke spent most of her days on her back, having the wind knocked out of her. Most of her nights were rubbing ointment into deep, purple and black bruises.

On the last day of the week, the recruits were visited again by Nyko, who inspected each of them for wear and tear, and treated minor injuries before clearing them all to continue. The next day they began a week of water survival training. Day after day, the recruits were taught by the large bearded instructor, Gus, how to survive different disaster scenarios, before being thrown, unceremoniously into a training pool and expected to demonstrate the their knew skills. Each day brought with it a fresh new hell. The first day the pool had been filled with ice, the next they had been strapped into a machine that rolled them upside down underwater, simulating a helicopter crash, the day after that they were required to practice, over and over, how to free themselves from an attacker in the water. The week ended with learning how to put weapons together while fully submerge. Needles to say, more then one of them had to be dragged out of the pool unconscious, and revived with CPR and a few slaps to the face.

With water survival training complete, they moved on to wilderness survival. Lincoln took charge of this portion of training, his demeanor much charged from the week of combative the recruits had spent with him Lincoln taught them to view the forest as a living breathing thing. It was here, away from the other instructors, that he revealed himself to be more patient then Clarke had formerly imagined him to be. Away from the eyes of his peers, Lincoln treated the recruits with more dignity then they had yet experienced, betraying an empathetic nature that put everyone at ease, at least for a few days. Their ease was short lived however, as the next week brought with it weapons qualifications and close quarters combat training with Anya.

Of all their instructors, Anya was the most militant and unbearable. She was as grueling as Indra, and as terrifying as Gustus, but with an added penchant for cruelty that none of the other instructors had yet demonstrated. Every mistake was met with a harsh and unusual punishment, every training scenario was impossible, and designed to humiliate the recruits and demonstrate their novice. One especially cruel trick had played out during a CQB training module. The recruits were supposed to go from room to room in the combat training village, sweeping each building for enemy targets. They had almost successfully completed clearing the last room in the last house, when Clarke turned to face the door they had come in through, and it was immediately kicked back into her face by Anya, who had been hiding behind it the whole time.

At the end of their week with Anya, the recruits found themselves lined up on the floor of the training arena again, staring at the same line of instructors as they had on that first day. Kane walked up and down, scrutinizing them, every one covered in the battle scars of a month of agony. “Ladies and gentlemen, at the beginning of this month you were each assessed during a survival, evasion, resistance and space scenarios. Not surprisingly, each and every one of you failed that training, and was found wanting. Over the course of this last month, each one of you had shown remarkable improvement. Tonight, we begin final test of how far you’ve come. In just a moment, we are going to return you the that initial training scenarios, and allow you a chance to redeem yourself. Pass, and you will become a fully fledge trainee of this institution, guaranteed a position among our ranks for as long as you are capable of sustaining it. Fail, and we will be forced to terminate our offer of membership and…” He paused and looked at them sternly. “Let’s just say you don’t want to fail.”

Clarke watched as Jasper shifting uncomfortable next to her. On her other side Monty gulped loudly, and Bellamy clenched his fists nervously behind his back. There was no question that all of the recruits were nervous about what awaited them, a return to the woods, another week of abject misery. Kane finished speaking, and held up the same small clicker as before. “Ladies and gentleman, I wish you all the best of luck.”

With that, the world went black.

——————————

Days later, Clarke set in the same small room, in the same low light, and watched Anya walk through the same door.

“Wait here!”

Her wet clothing dripped onto the floor beneath her, forming puddles at her feet. She shivered, and breathed slow, trying to calm her racing heart. The green eyes woman had been wrong. Waterboarding the second time around had as bad as the first, if not worse. Clarke continued to focus on remaining calm, steeling herself for what she was about to face. All week long, as she’d lain awake at night unable to sleep, her thought had been of this moment, of the interrogation she knew was coming. This time, however, she was prepared, at least more than she had been before. This time, she knew that she wouldn’t let her emotions get the best of her, wouldn’t push back, wouldn’t resist. This time she knew that the questions didn’t matter, the answers didn’t matter. This time she knew that the green eyed woman’s goal, was to see how far she could push Clarke before her emotions got the better of her and she broke, before she’d say uncle. This time, Clarke hoped, she’d thought she had figured out a way to turn the tables on the woman.

The woman with the green eyes entered the room and sat in front of Clarke, folding her hands on the table, and staring at them.

“So Clarke, here we are again.”

“Here we are.”

Tell me about why you turned down your residency at Johns Hopkins.”

Clarke stared as intently as possible at her interrogator, and began tapping her foot hard and deliberately against the concrete floor.

Tap, tap tap. “I found out that my mother was back with her old boyfriend, and that they were living together. Long story short, he was someone I didn’t care to be around, so I joined the Army instead, and they paid my way.” Tap, tap tap.

The woman looked down at Clarke’s tapping foot for a moment, and then back up. “And you and your mother stopped talking shortly after that?”

Tap, tap tap. “Yes.” Tap, tap tap.

Again the woman looked at Clarke’s foot, frowning and shifting uncomfortably.

“Was that because the boyfriend she was living with was the same one with who you had a violent altercation when you were 17?”

Tap, tap tap. “Yes.” Tap, tap tap.

“The man who beat you?”   
Tap, tap tap. “Yes.” Tap, tap tap.

The woman shifted again, cringing at the sound of Clarke’s tapping foot. “If you could stop tapping your foot… I only have a few more questions.”

Tap, tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.

“Is it correct that when the police arrived, that man had you pinned to a kitchen counter with your top torn off?”

This was the question that Clarke had known was coming. She swallowed back her anger, and worked hard to control the volume of her voice as she spoke. “If you want me to answer that, then look me in the eye.”

The woman continued to stare at her hands. Clarke tapped her foot even louder and spoke as slowly as she could, drawing out each word as it left her mouth.

“I said, if you want me to answer, then look me in the eye!”

Tap, tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.

“Will you stop tapping your foot like that!”

Tap, tap tap. “Look me in the eye!” Tap, tap tap.

The green eyed women raised her head abruptly and stared at Clarke, her eyes narrowing.  
“Stop tapping your foot!” A moment later her eyes drifted back to the table, unable to hold the gaze.”

Clarke continued tapping, trying not to appear excited, but thrilled that her strategy was working. “You can’t do it can you? You can’t sustain eye contact with me. Does it always makes you feel uncomfortable, or is it just because of this subject?”

As she spoke, Clarke began thumping her foot furiously against the floor, knowing that if her guess was right, the irritating noise would drive the woman in front her to distraction. In that moment, the woman in front of Clarke raised her hands, slamming them down on the table and letting out a frustrated breath. A load screeching echoed the through the room and the woman stood, pushing back her chair. She turned away from Clarke and strode out of the room, slamming the door shut behind her.

Clarke sat in silence, dreading what would follow on the heels of the exchange. She waited for the woman to return and begin interrogating her again. She waited for Anya to come back in and continue brutalizing her. Neither happened. Instead, when the door opened, it was Kane who entered. He smiled at Clarke, as he walked over to her, pulling a field knife from a sheath strapped to his thigh, and cutting her wrists free from the ropes binding them. “Looks like you passed kid.” He chuckled. “What on earth did you say to her anyway?”

——————————

Clarke gripped the lip of the sink, using it to pull heels off the bathroom floor. Her body felt like a lead weight, and as she stood she felt the stain of fatigue in ever single one of her muscles. Never in all her life had she been this sore, or this exhausted. She felt completely defeated, and as she gazed at her face in the mirror, lip split, cheek bruised, eye black, she realized that she felt defeated because she had been defeated, over and over again, all month long. The last thirty day of her life had been a never ending lesson in defeat, in being broken down bit by bit until there was nothing left to break anymore. At least now it was over. Clarke signed, desperate to crawl into the nearest bed and sleep, but loath to miss out on the celebration going on in the chow hall. She smiled as she hears the soft thump of music bring played in the other room, and the hollering of the other recruits as they celebrated their completion of hell month. Clarke closed her eyes, sighing, an reading herself to be social. She was startled back to reality when she head a stall door behind her swing open, and footsteps approached the sinks. Clarke looked at the mirror, taking in the reflection of the green eyed woman approaching from behind her. She strode up to a sink a few down from Clarke and began washing her hands.

“Shouldn’t you be celebrating.”

Clarke peered over at her, taking in how much her demeanor had changed from their earlier exchanged, though the woman still refused to look at her, choosing instead to focus on her hands.

“I just needed a minute.”

The woman nodded, turning off the faucet and shaking her hands dry. Continuing to avoid Her gaze, she made her way to the door, and opened it, talking a half a stride though. Just before she exited the washroom, she turned to Clarke, genuinely holding her gaze for the first time.

“I’m… I’m Lexa, by the way.” Then she left, and Clarke exited the bathroom to join her friends in celebration.


	4. Author's Note

Hey everyone,

Having to update this story across multiple sites has become a bit of a hassle, so from now on this story is going to be updated exclusively on tumblr. Here is the link for those who would like to continue reading it there: http://insideabunker.tumblr.com/tsgmain

Next chapter should be up by Sunday!


	5. Author's Note

Hey everyone,

I have really loved my time on AO3, but in a effort to centralize my work, I am going to be transitioning to Tumblr exclusively over the course of the next week. Until this Sunday, all of my stories will continue to be available here. Don't worry, still I plan to continue all of them, even the ones haven't been updated in a awhile. However, as of this Sunday subsequent updates will only be available on Tumblr. As of Sunday, February 12th, everything will be coming down from my profile on AO3. If you've been reading on here, feel free to follow me on Tumblr at insideabunker.tumblr.com. I am making the switch because I have more control over the look and feel of the stories on Tumblr, and it honestly feels a little more intimate as a platform. However, reviews and comments tend to be sparse over there, so if you are someone who tends to comment on my stories here, please continue to do so there! Nothing is better than feedback from readers! Thanks for everyone who will continue to follow me once I make the switch, and my sincerest apologies to those who won't be able to.

Best,  
insideabunker


End file.
